Baptism of Fire
by midnight-blue
Summary: The chill in the air, pulling secrets from lungs like hot breath. Eventual CM
1. Chapter 1

**title: **Baptism of Fire

**author:** Kristin

**rating: **pg-13

**disclaimer:** I don't own these characters. I promise.

**summary:** The chill in the air, pulling secrets from lungs like hot breath. Eventual C/M

**notes: **This takes place very, very shortly after the Season 11 episode "Say No More" because of the "kiss" which I make a slight reference to and quickly progress from. The title is actually one of my favorite "words" and (the muse to my fingers) defines it as: _a severe ordeal experienced for the first time_

* * *

His fingers curled around the steering wheel, a bit more lax than they had been earlier when the light of day provided made him worry about any enemy troops that might spot them. It was a thought more than likely closer to paranoia than pragmatism, but it was there nonetheless. The descending sun was a slight relief. The silence beyond tires in the dirt was also welcome, initially, but he was suddenly starting to desire a little interaction with his female cohort, presently slumped against her seat with her head facing him. It was still cold _enough_ in the daytime, but the night air brought an even greater chill and Margaret was only wearing her thin coat. He thought perhaps he'd wake her shortly and advise her to put on the sweater she'd brought.

Then again, she might denounce his _mother-hen_ advice and continue as she was.

They hadn't discussed the kiss she'd given him in the Mess Tent a week ago, but it was certainly cycling through his mind, a ponderance which elicited, still, surprise and even optimism. Since he'd been at the 4077th, he'd had so little opportunity, or desire, even, to forge any romantic attachments. While closest to Margaret of all his colleagues, the idea of her being more than just a friend was suddenly brought to the forefront of his mind with surprising, and stark clarity. He would admit he'd always been attracted to her, physically, even intellectually; she wasn't on par with many of the social elite in Boston, but she was clever and forthright, with wit and ingenuity and tenacity. He would've never imagined being interested in someone like her, in Boston. But there was dirt beneath him and blood staining his hands daily and even his knuckles were stiffer than they ever were. So, it was all different. Sometimes, he thought, it would do to have another hand, a steady hand, wrap around his own when even he would feel a tremble.

His thoughts were disrupted as he noticed Margaret sliding further down in her seat. He feared she might slide far enough to hit her head, so he carefully maneuvered himself closer to her, keeping one hand on the wheel, as he allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. A few moments later, however, she started whimpering. He cast a quick glance at her face, wondering if he should wake her, but didn't need to ponder it further, as she awoke and quickly lifted her head off his shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest. He expected her to make a reference to the position she'd found herself in, but she didn't; merely, stared ahead.

"It's getting dark," she mumbled.

"Yes, typically what happens when the sun descends."

She shivered.

"Along with that," he added. He wanted to mention the sweater, but decided not to just yet.

He glanced at her, wanting to know what had disturbed her sleep, but he wasn't sure how his probing would be taken. Would she appreciate it as a gesture of concern, out of friendship? Or would she be defensive, uncomfortable with the thought that he'd witnessed a sliver of her vulnerability?

"Bad dream?" he started.

When she shrugged, he took it as an initially good sign and decided to forge ahead. He was heading into uncharted territories; though they had always shared an easy, close rapport, tempered with passionate, sometimes hot-headed banter, they had never really dug into one another's psyche. And he, himself, had certainly never shared among friends what he was about to reveal.

"It's sometimes hard to sleep through the night here. Memories," he approached, cautiously.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Major. Did you need me to read you a story tonight, is that what you're getting at?" her voice rose in annoyance.

He sighed.

"I merely wanted--"

"I don't want to discuss this."

He paused a moment, sighing.

"I had a dream, where I'd forgotten everything. Everything I'd learned in med school, just...gone. Everyone was worried, yelling at me, imploring me to hurry. The patient was losing blood rapidly--a lacerated artery. The only thing I could do, that I could remember, was to stave off the flow of blood. But it was seeping through the gauze and covering my hands, my clothes. I was helpless."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel again. He'd never opened up to anyone to that extent before, giving insight to his emotions. Maybe it had something to do with the chill in the air, pulling secrets from lungs like hot breath.

Margaret uncrossed her arms, looking at him now, a soft look upon her face.

"Charles, that's--you've never been like this before, shared with me, I'm--"

"_Reciprocity_, Margaret, is not yet dead," he said, prodding her gently.

She sighed and nodded.

"I feel silly about it now, after hearing your dream."

He turned his gaze towards her again, pressing her with his eyes.

"Right, right, reciprocity. Okay, well, I've been having this dream for three days now where we're all walking in the forest and it's raining and we're slipping in the mud. Then we see a clearing ahead, with these...rays of sunshine shooting into it. So we hurry towards it and as we get there, the land suddenly splits open and everyone starts falling off the earth into--into...nothing. And then someone comes up and says, 'Didn't you know that the world was flat?' And that's it."

He glanced at her before asking, "What did the person look like?"

"Charles," she swatted his arm forcefully.

"Winston Churchill," she admitted.

"Well, I don't know what that means. What would Dr. Freedman say?"

"He'd probably joke around and ask me if I harbored an attraction to Winston Churchill."

"Do you?"

She swatted him again, this time with a smile on her face.

"So what's troubling you about it, then?"

"Besides the fact that all of my friends die, you mean?"

"But it's not as though you _caused_ the earth to self-destruct."

"I couldn't stop it, either. And I should've known that the world was flat."

"Do you always have such abstract dreams, Major?" Charles smirked.

Their easy banter was halted as the jeep suddenly made a lurching sound and smoke started rising from the engine. Charles, quickly panicked by the sight, lost sight control of the wheel and drove over a sharp tree branch, which punctured the left front tire. All movement immediately ceased, and he leant back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his head. The steam sizzled as it was continually emitted.

"Great, Winchester, just great!" Margaret threw her hands up in the air, quickly exiting her side to stand in front of the engine.

"I beg your pardon; what did _I _do?"

"If you hadn't blown the tire out back there, I might've been able to fix the engine and get us home."

"If you _could_ fix the engine, Major."

She slammed her hands on the hood. "And why couldn't I? Oh, right, I'm a woman!"

He slammed _his_ hand now. "Major! I--"

And cut himself off, sighing. Margaret slid her hands off the hood in acquiescence, shoving them into her pockets.

"I'm sorry, Charles, I--"

He waved his hand at her.

"Is there any way you can fix the engine and we could make it back with one deficient tire?"

"If we weren't very far, I'd say we could try it, but we're still a considerable distance from camp. The engine's overheated. We could let it cool a bit and try to start it up again. If that doesn't work--"

"We go on foot."

Neither, of course, eager to walk back to camp, given the dangers around them.

* * *

She screeched, hitting the steering wheel with vehement disgust.

"This damn thing!" she cursed loudly, for the fifth time in a row. Although, this time, her choice of words was tamer.

"Another expletive, Major, will do the trick, I'm certain."

She glared at him and crossed her arms on the wheel, laying her head down. The sun had nearly set. It was getting colder with each encroaching sliver of darkness.

"All right, Winchester, grab what we need and let's move it out," she muttered, disgusted resignation in her voice. As she exited the jeep, she grabbed her duffel bag.

They had been sent to the 8063rd to provide extra assistance, but for merely a day; something, for which, they were both grateful, as it meant relatively little luggage. Charles carried his own duffel bag and the medical bag he'd used to store his stethoscope and various first aid essentials.

Charles noticed Margaret shivering a little more intensely, now that she'd ceased abusing the exanimate truck.

"Margaret, might I suggest, before we embark any further, that you put on the extra sweater you're toting?"

She gave him a pointed look and slung the bag across her shoulders, tucking her hands firmly into her pockets.

"I put it on before we left the 8063rd. I was freezing."

He tried to quelch the tinge of worry creeping upon him. She was cold before they'd left, and that was afternoon, with the slight warmth of the midday sun. Now it was dusk and colder, and she continued to shiver. He was also colder, but he'd packed a little extra, and was grateful for the barrier his two thick sweaters and thin coat provided.

"I'll be fine, let's just...worry about getting there. I think hypothermia is the least of our problems."

As if in response to her statement, a distant blast of gunfire startled them, and they instinctively walked closer together.

* * *

"...and Yeats, also wonderful," Margaret remarked, after they'd been walking for close to an hour. Sometimes the sight of her breath frozen in stasis by the cold air still mesmerized her. So she very languidly drew her breaths in and out, savoring the sight of _seeing_ life, in a sense.

"Quite. And Irish, to boot. I suppose they do more than produce souses."

She gave him a slight glare and opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand.

"Let me retract, _and_ amend that. They produced you--a woman of beauty and tenderness--so they must be worthy of nothing less than the utmost praise."

Margaret laughed at that.

"Donna did tell me you give the longest compliments. Most people would've just said, 'I love the Irish, because you're one of them.'"

Charles cringed. "Well, Margaret, I am not _most_ people, thank heavens for that. And when did you speak with Donna?"

He hadn't thought of his "wife" in a very long time, but the memory of their talk in his tent warmed him slightly.

"Charles, I was her maid of honor at your _un_wedding, if you'll recall. We did have a little chat. Then again, you were pretty...happy at that ceremony, too, so you might've forgotten."

"Oh, I remember that."

"You with that bow tie around your neck. Sexy."

Charles wasn't necessarily surprised by her remark--she'd flirted with him before, after all--but it certainly went to his heart more deeply than it might have previously, with the weight of their kiss still on his mind, much like the feel of her warm lips against his. He decided to play along.

"It's just as well that Donna and I _un_married that night, because I was quite taken, I must admit, with the maid of honor."

"Were you?"

"Emphatically. Granted, she's agonizingly obstinate, which can make casual conversation, sometimes, an arduous task--"

She bumped into him with significant force, causing him to stumble. But the smirk on her face reassured him.

"But there's a lilt in her voice when she's happy, and when she smiles, her eyes remind me of the way streetlights look in snow; a little mysterious, but bright, and the only beautiful, happy thing in an expanse of banality."

She could only smile at him, wrapping an arm around his and resting her head against his shoulder for a few seconds as they walked.

"Do you think someone will come for us soon?" she wondered.

"We were due back two hours ago. I'd say it's a fair bet someone will be concerned that we've been incommunicado for so long."

She was shivering a bit more violently now and he worried that she might be on the brink of mild hypothermia. There was only one solution, for now, and it was one he didn't hesitate to bring to fruition. Deliberately halting their movements, he unzipped his coat, handing it to her. Despite her look of confusion, she obliged. He pulled his thick, navy blue sweater over his head and immediately, Margaret reacted.

"No, Charles, I know what you're doing and you can stop right now."

"Margaret, this is non-negotiable. I'm barely shivering, I've got two heavy sweaters and a coat. You've got one thin sweater and one thin coat. I will not stand by and watch as you succumb to hypothermia. We're going to stop the progression in its tracks."

He noticed the way the coat shook as she held it, and felt further vindicated by his decision. When she still looked like she was going to refuse him, he opted for a different tactic.

"Margaret," he put his hands on her forearms, stroking up and down gently, "I am worried about how cold you are right now. I don't know how long we will be out in this weather. I _care_ about you. Very much. Let me do this."

His soft tone, soothing touch, and palpable concern were enough to convince her. She handed him his coat and simulatenously took the sweater, putting in over her coat.

"Thank you, Charles."

He reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and smiled.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**notes:** Thanks for the feedback. It's nice to know there are a few other C/M 'shippers out there. Not enough, I say! Enjoy this next part.

* * *

A veil of darkness had fully descended upon them now. Occasionally, a rumble--of gunfire or land mines--would disrupt their already unpleasant journey, sending tendrils of worry up the back of their neck like an unwanted chill, which also enveloped them. 

Charles was still fairly comfortable, though a shiver would permeate through his barrier of warm clothing every now and then. He glanced at Margaret, content as he saw that her shivering was now minimal. He couldn't help but think, in addition, that she looked fairly adorable in his sweater--what with his sleeves too long for her arms, forcing her hands to curl within the edges.

"Warmer now?"

"Very," she said thickly, multiple meanings to her answer.

They'd been walking for more than two hours, and Margaret had lost track of the distance still required of them. When they'd started out, she had estimated how long it might take, but the chill, and the company, distracted her mind slightly from practicalities. She thought at some point she might regret it, but for now, she was content to bask in the chivalry of a man she'd, for so long, harbored a burgeoning attraction to. Maybe...even...love. The thought sent a violent chill through her and she rubbed her arms quickly up and down her sides. Not because it was a bad idea, but rather, it was a hopeless desire, she thought.

"Margaret," he tread softly, "in your dream, why did you consider it your duty to be apprised of the flatness of earth?"

When she didn't respond, he continued, "Is it that you feel responsible? Others around you were perishing and you couldn't stop it. You feel you need to take care of everyone else, at the expense of your own physical and mental well-being?"

She moved closer, so he could feel the heat of her body encased in his thick sweater, against him.

"Dr. Winchester, I had no idea you moonlighted as a psychiatrist as well. Is there no end to your expertise?"

"Margaret."

"I don't know _why_ I felt that way in my dream, Charles. Isn't that part of the frustration of dreams? They're so damn mysterious. You dream about a baby elephant and it means good fortune," she gave a confused expression at that, briefly throwing her hands up.

"So our head nurse is also a dream analyst. Very interesting, Dr. Freud," Charles said, amusement tinging his voice.

"Charles, you know what I mean. Who knows why I dreamt that, or felt that way. I certainly don't think I need to take care of everyone. I mean, I have a hard enough time taking care of myself, everyone does."

"I'll drink to that."

"Mmm. Now _that_ would be good right now. A nice glass of scotch. Warm. Familiar."

* * *

"I'll admit I was quite partial to _A Christmas Carol_, in my younger days. No doubt Hunnicutt and Pierce garner endless hours of self-satisfaction and amusement by drawing parallels between myself and Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge," he mumbled with disdain. 

"Oh, Charles, we all--we've all got dirt on the stoop. The important thing is what's inside the front door."

"Well, Margaret, I must say, either it's the incommodious surroundings we presently find ourselves in, or the oppressive chill, but you are, so suddenly, quite the philosopher."

"Maybe it's the company," she winked, curling the ends of the sweater sleeves more tightly around her fingers.

"Nevertheless, I do appreciate your quiet, yet occasionally fervent praise and defense. Perhaps it's because you truly know...me."

"I'd like to think I'm getting there."

Charles was now shivering more intensely, not unnoticed by Margaret, who once again looped her arm through his, trying to share what little warmth she could offer. By now, it was quite dark, and simply walking without obstacle was trying enough. As if on cue, Charles missed a moderately sized rock and went tumbling down, pulling Margaret with him. She quickly recovered and stood, then knelt back down when she noticed he wasn't moving.

"Charles, Charles! Are you all right? Please, are you all right?" she yelled as she shook him.

He slowly turned over, a slight grimace on his face.

"Fine, but for the wind being knocked out of me," he murmured.

She helped him to sit up and hunch forward as he took a few deep breaths to regain composure and restore normal breathing. His hand moved to his ankle, which he massaged.

"Twisted it. It's not too bad, but I'm afraid we might have to take a break, to avert further injury to it."

She nodded, complying without hesitation.

"I'm getting tired anyway, Charles, and it is pretty late. There's an overgrowth of bushes; we can burrow in there and head out again in the morning."

He nodded, putting his shoe back on, content that swelling would be minimal. She helped him to stand and forcefully draped his arm over her shoulders, which he initially tried to resist.

"Now who's being stubborn? It's just over there, let me help you."

He gave in, and in a few short paces they had reached the bushes. She knelt down slowly, depositing him on the ground. Dropping their bags, she spent a few seconds looking at them intensely.

"Admiring the stitching?" he asked of her.

"I'm just wondering if we can--we can rip the seams and make two blankets. But we've got stuff inside."

"Which could easily be replaced. Thankfully, it won't get much colder than this, and we're fairly well insulated now, but I'd prefer going to sleep knowing we have an added layer of protection."

Margaret opened her bag, sorting through the contents, and gasping when she came to the bottom, pulling a large blanket out with her.

"Charles, I--I don't know how I didn't realize this was even in here. How could I forget that?"

He propped himself up on one elbow, gently pulling the blanket from her grasp.

"It wouldn't have been much use earlier, anyway. The only good use for it applies to our current predicament, and here, we have it," he soothed.

Margaret nodded her head, eyes unfocused on him, still frustrated with herself. Charles had sat up, unzipping his coat.

"Major, at the risk of sounding like an overeager adolescent, I'd like to suggest we...get significantly _intimate_ tonight, to generate and trap as much body heat as possible."

Margaret had been rubbing her chilled hands together, but at his statement, abruptly stopped, giving him a pointed, slightly bewildered look.

"Winchester, are you suggesting--"

"_Hardly_, Major. I merely meant it would be wise for you to burrow into me, and I could wrap my coat around you. The blanket would completely envelope us, and that should be sufficient warmth."

She smiled, a blush creeping onto her cheeks, though he wouldn't have noticed, given the darkness and the already pinkish hue to them, side effect of their surroundings. She pulled the blanket around her shoulder and laid her head on Charles's chest. His sweater wasn't at all how she'd imagined it would feel; rather, it was soft and infinitely warm and the rhythmic beating of his heart lulled her into relaxation. She wasn't sure how it would feel to get this close to him, given the thoughts that had been permeating her head all day, and the past week, but it felt, somehow, safe and just..._right_.

Charles pulled his coat over her shoulders and took her hands in both of his, stroking the icy skin gently. He surprised her by blowing hot air across the tips of her fingers, then continuing the gentle massage. He brought her hands to his lips, kissing the fingers gently, slowly, relishing the gesture. Then moved her hands below the blanket, where they would be warm.

"Charles," she started softly, looking up at him intensely. She snuggled closer to him, burrowing her head against his neck, and her cheek into his sweater.

"Charles, that dream--it scared me because you were the last one left, and you were calling out for me. I wanted to--needed to save you. I couldn't."

"Margaret," he rumbled beneath her ear, "it _was_ just a dream. There's nothing portentous about it. I'm fairly certain the world isn't flat, and if it were, I do not think Winston Churchill would be standing at the crevasse berating you for not knowing."

She seemed ready to concede and relax, but still hesitated. So, he pulled her closer, and kissed her cheek.

"I have a surprise for you, when we get back. At least, I hope it's arrived by now," she mumbled, eager to change the subject.

"Oh?"

"No hints. Think of it as an added incentive to make it home as soon as possible."

He turned the word _home_ over in his head, which he'd many times thought of referring to the 4077th as. And yet, it had never felt quite, _quite_ right until this instance: when that very home he would be returning to promised the company of the woman now cradled within his arms.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**notes:** Thanks for the feedback! I spent a great deal of time researching the medical implications involved in the upcoming chapters, but I still claim to be far, far from an expert, so I've taken the path of least resistance and decided to provide only the basic, important details, leaving the specificities to be casualties of ambiguity. That way, I avoid sounding like an idiot and detracting from the overall story. Enjoy!

* * *

Certain events caused an immediate disconnect in thought processes, such that even the most recent memories became instantly blurred. Strangely, it happened, that while she remembered waking up with her head still on Charles's chest, she couldn't remember anything after that, until the jeep--like water in the desert--came upon them in the early morning, just as they were preparing for another long trek. To get home. To the 4077th. But there was the jeep...and she couldn't remember... 

She wanted to.

Usually, she had a sharp memory; could retain information, even minute details, in some instances, for long periods of time. In fact, that was how she'd managed to buy the surprise gift for Charles. He must have thought she'd instantly forget, what with her rushing off, in vain, to Tokyo for her birthday. But she'd remembered that he'd wanted the...Schnabel recording of...

"Beethoven," she heard herself say.

Suddenly, she was aware that both she and Charles were in the jeep, someone with dark hair was driving, and Charles was leaning over her. He hadn't buttoned his coat, though. When had they gotten into the jeep?

"What's she saying?" the dark-haired man yelled to Charles. "She was fine twenty minutes ago, she was making perfect sense."

Charles whipped his head around to yell at the man. "Klinger! Put the pedal on the ground, hold the wheel with both hands, and get us there now!"

Klinger! Why had she forgotten he was driving? A look of confusion overtook her features and Charles _must've_ noticed, but it didn't seem to bother him, as he just hunched over her again. What was he doing, anyway? Her hands were laying on her pants, so she moved her left hand upward, to where Charles's hands were, feeling a sticky, moist sensation. It was oozing. Now she remembered. She'd been shot. And she was dizzy, sweating, her skin clammy. He had taken off her sweater and unzipped the coat. _Keep the clothing loose_. No wonder he sounded so urgent and worried. _Shock_. But her thoughts were jumbled, lucidity tentative. It was better to think of other memories right now, anyway. Charles was handling everything.

An image of her mother suddenly overtook her periphery; her long hair, resting on her shoulders; her sweet smile, forever void of condemnation or scorn. Mother was the safe place, the one who read and read, and inserted inflections into her voice for different characters and situations. They loved poetry together, mythical poetry. An old poem came back now, so palpable she could almost feel her mother's lips near her ear, giggling at the big words and having to explain Byzantium to her. _And therefore..._

"I have sailed the seas," she heard herself say again. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. And it was slightly harder to breathe now. Irregular and shallow.

"I know, sweetheart," his voice dipped, and he applied a minute amount of additional pressure to the wound.

Klinger couldn't hear her whisper over the noise caused by the jeep speeding over dirt, but the one glance he'd hazarded back towards her made him take Charles's urgency to heart. She was as pale as any of the wounded they'd operated on, and the idea that the seemingly infallible Major Houlihan could be rendered so vulnerable, frankly unnerved Klinger.

Judging by Charles's entire progression of behavior, it _more_ than unnerved him.

Margaret, however, only hoped the recording had arrived by now. It was supposed to arrive three days ago, but she had been told to anticipate a day or two delay, despite the expedited shipping speed. She had, however, planned a more glamorous way to give it to him. Now, it seemed, he would happen upon it while she was...detained. The decision to buy it made her even more curious about the labyrinthine world of classical music, so adored by Charles. Still an amateur, she recalled, on most occasions, loving Mozart whenever he was played. Yes, she liked him quite a lot. Perhaps she'd enjoy Beethoven as well.

"I like Mozart," she managed.

The jeep halted violently and she was inches away from oblivion. Charles's hands hadn't moved from their spot on her wound, but as she saw Klinger climb out of the jeep and Hawkeye, BJ, and Colonel Potter rush towards it, she finally felt his hands leave their stasis and cradle her as he deposited her gently on a litter. As her eyes slid shut and the voices around her were nothing more than a din, she felt a kiss on her hand and a whisper at her ear.

So Charles would be there...

Handling everything.

* * *

Briefly, before she'd been anesthetized, she'd heard disjointed whispers. _Hypovolemic shock. Fluids. It's the spleen, not ruptured, thank God. It's not an option._

But then the voices had quickly faded.

To be replaced with...memories. Her mother, again. _Wearing a long dress to her ankles, that danced with California winds as she hung laundry on the line to dry. When Margaret was very young, she'd sit on the grass, beneath the sheets, loving the feel of the fabric as it patted her cheek. Then she would whistle through the holes left by the void of missing front teeth. She would ask her mother about Lucy Sullivan, the girl with the tricycle, and why Lucy had to light candles at her church and they didn't._

_There was talk of saints and necklaces and special prayers and for a few minutes, on that hot summer day, she wished she could light a candle and pray to St. Michael, the only saint her mother knew of by name. But, kindly, her mother denied her request._

The rest of the memory was invaded by voices, again.

"Everyone reacts to anesthesia differently."

"But she should be making some movement by now."

"Pierce, you keep throwing gasoline on the fire and I'm going to personally escort you out of here. Now, if you want to be here, stop putting dark clouds in front of everyone else's sun," Potter boomed.

_Where was Charles?_

"Colonel Potter, I must admit, I'm a tad anxious myself."

_There he was._

She could feel herself being pulled under again. It was too much right now. She wanted to wake up, to relieve them all of their worry, even if for a brief moment. But it would have to come later.

"Then why don't the two of you mosey on down to..."

_Lucy Sullivan, she remembered, was quite pious. Not suffocatingly so. It was subtle, and beautiful in that. When they were five, they saw a dead bird on the sidewalk. Margaret stared at it, sad that such a lovely thing had to go. But Lucy bent over it, saying a prayer that ended with, "now and at the hour of our death," and it was burned into Margaret's head, forever, because death would make frequent visits throughout her life. She never had the courage to pray **with** it, for her soul. Just as she could never light a candle._

When next she became aware of the present, she could feel a pressure around her left hand, fingers tightly laced through hers. And there was an added pressure on that hand; possibly...someone's cheek. Someone had fallen asleep at her bedside. _Sleep_. She imagined she must've fallen asleep again for quite a while. She was doubtful that they would've given her a lot of pain medication until she'd come out of the anesthetic. Which she hadn't, officially, yet.

Her eyes were still so heavy. And it was easy to go back to summer days in California.

Someone else held her right hand, squeezing it at that moment.

"I should read you _The Last of the Mohicans_. It's all about me, of course. Hawkeye. The hero."

_Oh, Hawkeye._

"Not that this is a bad book. Well, actually, it must be. It put Charles to sleep."

"Perhaps it was the ordeal, and the added worry," a softer voice added.

"I know, Father, I'm just--"

He put her hand down, rustling through the book he held. He cleared his throat.

"Francie and Neeley put all their junk into a burlap bag and each grabbed an end and dragged it along the street; up Manhattan Avenue, past Maujer, Ten Eyck, Stagg to Scholes Street. Beautiful names for ugly streets."

"What book is that?"

"_A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_."

Margaret remembered receiving it a month ago. She'd told Charles about it, yet she hadn't had the chance to begin reading it. Apparently, he'd started reading it to her. She wished she could've heard the beginning.

"Come on, Margaret. You're rubbing off on Charles, even."

At the mention of his name, Charles started, sitting up and immediately glancing at Margaret. His face fell as soon as he was aware that she remained unconscious.

"Charles, I'm worried."

Charles nodded, unbeknowst to Margaret. Yet she _could_ feel him squeeze her hand.

"Don't despair. I've put in an excess of good words for the Major here to _my_ higher-up. She's in good hands."

"Yeah, well, I'd feel better if _her_ hands would squeeze back," Hawkeye mumbled.

Charles was suspiciously quiet, but he had begun stroking his fingers over her palm.

"I'll...keep praying," Father Mulcahy said softly.

She thought again of the talk of saints and candles. And the way she brought her legs to her chest at her mother's refusal of her request. She rocked in the grass, her chin on her knees. Then looked up at her mother, her voice forlorn as she asked--

"Why can't I light a candle?" she was, again, aware of herself saying faintly, out loud.

Instantly, she could hear a shriek of delight from Hawkeye, who launched himself out of his chair, bending over to her hug very gently.

"_Why can't you light a candle?_ Margaret, you could roast marshmallows right now, for all we care!"

Father Mulcahy patted her shoulder and Hawkeye moved to the foot of her bed, shouting for Colonel Potter and BJ.

Charles, meanwhile, had pulled her hand closer to him, against his heart, bending near to her, never ceasing the stroking of her palm. She turned her head fully, to look at him, certain she hadn't seen a smile that big on his face for at least a week. When she'd kissed him, in fact. The bed dipped down as Colonel Potter seated himself at her right side, patting her forearm.

"We're mighty glad to see you awake, Margaret. You lost a lot of blood and the anesthesia...well, let's just say we were _all_ joining the padre in prayer. Every hour."

"How do you feel, Margaret?" BJ asked from his position at the foot of her bed, hunched over the rail.

With each waking minute, the dull ache on her left upper side grew with intensity. She wondered vaguely if, and how much, damage had been done to her ribs. Realizing she hadn't yet answered the question, she moved her right arm, resting it on her pelvis, and said, "Sore. Tired."

"Thank God there was a lull in the fighting. We're pretty well empty here right now. Best we can figure is a scout spotted the jeep, fired at it."

She still didn't remember the actual event of it, only being aware of Charles hunched over her, pressing against her ribs.

"Very sore. Very tired," she amended, her voice dipping, feeling and belying the increasing pain.

Hawkeye, who'd been sitting by her feet, nodded and stood, presumably to get pain medicine. Colonel Potter also stood, hands on his hips. Klinger was there, too, just like he'd been in the jeep. She had no idea why, but it was vaguely reassuring.

"Good driving," she said, looking at him.

Charles, whose gaze had been entirely focused on Margaret, now looked towards Klinger as well, a soft smile of gratitude overtaking his features.

"Yes, Max, I must commend you on an excellent bit of driving, indeed. Quite rough terrain."

No one wanted to say just _why_ it was so important that he'd driven with rarely seen expedition, maneuvering adeptly, but they knew. She was very, very close to bleeding to death; a spleen injury notorious for extensive loss of blood. Maybe at some point, she thought, she'd want to know the medical aspects to her life-saving surgery, but the pain and fatigue were overpowering that curiosity.

She was beginning to feel a bit invaded, with everyone hovering over her. She hoped they would all leave once the pain medicine had been administered. Well, except for Charles. She wasn't sure what she'd dream about, but she was anxious, given the dreams plaguing her unconscious for the last three days. It would be nice to awake--from any possible nightmares--with his strong hand still cradling hers. But as she turned her head to look at him, and he met her gaze, she saw, with clarity, just how haggard he was. Maybe it would be best if he got some sleep. She had no idea how long she'd been out--no one had said--but her unconsciousness, coupled with the wound itself, had severely drained him. Like the time--the time when he'd run off to Battalion Aide; depleted, emotionally taxed. Ask him about it, she reminded herself. Maybe he'd talk. After all, she wanted to know why he looked, right now, as he did then. And acting just as reserved, minus the physical connection due to his continued holding of her hand.

Hawkeye returned with a syringe, such a sweet look on his face. They'd grown close as friends; she wasn't surprised to see the same fatigue and worry--slightly less than that of Charles, but present nonetheless--in his eyes. He stood behind Charles's shoulder, then took a seat on that side of the bed. She turned her gaze back to Charles, thinking of being in the jeep, how cold it was. And how he hadn't buttoned up his coat. She had wanted to chide him for it then, but couldn't.

"Why didn't you...button your coat?"

Charles looked confused at first, then seemed to understand.

"In the jeep, you mean?" When she nodded, he smiled, stroking his fingers over hers.

"Margaret, you were...bleeding, badly. Nothing else could have been of more importance to me, at that moment, than your well-being," he said, his voice husky.

For a second, she wondered how that sounded to everyone else, but no one reacted outwardly, and it didn't matter to her at the moment anyway. She turned her head further left, into her pillow. Hawkeye leant forward, injecting the pain medication into her arm.

She didn't move, but, knowing Klinger was still there, said as loudly as she could manage, "Klinger, give Charles...recording."

She knew he would understand her, satisfied as she heard him say, "Sure, Major."

Fighting to keep her eyes open a second longer, and losing, she cast one last glance at Charles before allowing her lids to droop, as they so insisted. Hawkeye bent over to kiss her cheek and before she was fully under, she squeezed Charles's hand.

* * *

Charles tucked a strand of hair behind her hair and gently set her hand down by her side. He sighed, steepling his fingers as he rested his elbows on his knees. He was content, he would not admit out loud, to simply watch her chest rise and fall steadily. No more irregular breaths or rapid heartbeat. Just...serenity. He wouldn't relax, completely, he knew, until she was up and walking on her own, standing next to him in OR, not laying beneath his scalpel. 

Hawkeye had taken a position across from him, BJ seated next to him.

"Fellas, she's going to be pretty well out of it for the next two days, at least. It wouldn't hurt any of us to get some rest while she's doing the same. Then we'll on be on par when she starts coming around completely," Colonel Potter said softly, standing at the foot of the bed.

"Colonel, she's been having...bad dreams lately. With her weakened state, I don't want the anxiety of nightmares agitating her condition. If someone is here with her, to soothe her--"

"Winchester, that medicine is going to keep her pretty well under for a few hours. You've been sitting here longer than anyone else and your eyes are at half-mast. Pretty soon, you'll be so tired you won't even be able to coordinate your hands. Now, get up, take a nap, shower, and make yourself presentable. The nurses are here and one of us will be around if she runs into a problem."

He wanted to protest, but doing that would give further power to the romantic feelings brimming beneath the surface. Not something he thought quite appropriate just now, in the present company. He had to admit he was exhausted and it was illogical to think a beleaguered caretaker could dole out significant, or proper attention. So he stood, bending to kiss her temple, and pulled on the coat he'd draped over the chair. When he stepped outside, he paused for a few seconds. He hadn't been out of post-op since they'd brought her in for surgery. The air was still burdened with a chill. As he prepared to walk away, Margaret's groggy voice came back to him and he looked down, noticing the open sprawl of his coat. So he smiled and buttoned it, heading first to see Klinger, who'd retreated back to his office.

"Klinger, might I inquire about the recording Major Houlihan made reference to?" he asked as he came through the door.

"Oh, sure, Major. It came yesterday. She was really excited about getting it. Although, when I asked her why she was giving it to you, she was...her usual, charming self," Klinger said, a hint of affection in his voice.

Charles took the package, gently tearing off the wrapping. An instant, overwhelming warmth came over him as he looked at the title. Schnabel's 1932 recording of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. He dare not speak just yet, for fear his vocal chords would not comply.

"You know, she was so excited about giving it to you herself, I wonder why she wanted me to give it to you now. Maybe it's...in case--"

"Thank you, Max," Charles abruptly cut him off, unwilling to hear the rest of that thought. He tucked the record against his side and exited the building, heading for The Swamp.

Taking the record out, he gently set the needle atop it as he deposited it into his phonograph. He kicked his shoes off and rested against his pillow, crossing his arms over his stomach as the gifted piano player made magic of Beethoven. For a moment, he was absent from the worry and fear of impending grief that had been occupying his thoughts. But it quickly came back, as the notes reminded him of art and the infallibility of earth's beautiful, gentle souls. But no, the _fallibility_ of the most precious things. _Margaret_. And he shut his eyes as they glistened, taking the needle abruptly off the record as the corner of his mouth trembled. And he wished for the immortality of the woman who drank scotch, adored poetry, sang a song about Molly Malone, loved yoga and Mozart, and, maybe...him.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

**notes: **Thanks for the feedback! It's nice to know there are a few of you out there reading it, despite the fact that this is generally an ignored pairing. Again, thanks for reading and enjoy!

* * *

When he awoke, he was shrouded in darkness. Initially disoriented, he thought for an instant he was beneath the overgrown bush again, Margaret's head near his left shoulder. But then the creak of a door brought him fully awake, and the delusion was shattered. The familiar feeling of overwhelming worry came upon him again--like waves lapping at a drowning man's head--as he met BJ's gaze.

"Did you sleep for a while, Charles?" he asked as he pulled his coat tightly around his stomach, making his way to the still.

Charles nodded, running a hand over his face.

"Hawkeye's doing rounds," he said, leaning back with a martini glass perched at his lips, eyes closed.

Charles didn't feel like speaking with Hunnicutt, even idle chitchat, so he gathered his robe and towel and headed off for a quick shower. When he returned to the Swamp, BJ was asleep--for which he was grateful--and he quickly got dressed, pulling a brown sweater over his head. As he entered post-op, his eyes went immediately to Margaret. Hawkeye was writing something on a clipboard, standing over a patient who'd been brought in with a laceration to his superficial popliteal vein. One another patient occupied a bed on the far side of the room--a minor case.

He cleared his throat, moving across the room to stand at the end of Margaret's bed, picking up her chart. Even _that_ didn't ease his worry just yet. She wasn't out of the danger zone, not for at least another few days. But so far, the results were satisfying. She'd needed a large quantity of blood, and fluids, to compensate for the shock that had set in. _That's_ when he'd felt most frightened; never having experienced that serious a condition in those dire circumstances, applied to a loved one. She'd been talking to him initially, and he hadn't let the worry overtake him yet. She'd covered his blood-soaked hands with hers, squeezing his fingers and smiling, reassuring him the whole time. How absurd, he thought now. Her, reassuring _him_. Her optimism had eventually spread a bit, so that finally, _finally_ he was joking and reassuring _her_; reminding her of the time she'd spoken of his hands with admiration, declaring that she'd want no other hands but his, on her--in the event she needed an operation--and how she'd get that chance now. An easy in and out, he'd joked. Even Klinger had contributed something lighthearted. But then she'd grown quiet, concentrating, and her hands patted his, then went to her side. It was when she'd gotten _so_ quiet, her breathing shallow--and suddenly said _Beethoven_ seemingly from nowhere--that he'd felt a sickness in his stomach.

His hands had been soaked when he'd gotten to OR. She was his responsibility, and yet there he was, _stained _with her lifeforce, rather than preserving it. He thought of his brother, Timmy, and how, when he fell from the tree, he'd been instantly silent. No whimpers or whispers or nonsensical ramblings, just silence. But Margaret had been speaking right up to moment they put her on the litter. It was a good sign, he'd chanted in his head. _A good sign_.

"Charles?" Hawkeye suddenly took a seat beside Charles on the empty bed across from Margaret, both men glancing at her sleeping face. Both men feeling intense worry, but from vastly different perspectives.

"How has she been, Pierce?"

"Stable, completely out. I just think of how...loud and constant and--and _vivacious_ she is. It's so strange to see her any other way."

"_Vivacious_? Pierce, you sound like you're describing a cocktail waitress who has occasion to tap dance for money, and any lascivious men who might happen her way. _Vivacious_ women, Pierce, leave nothing to the imagination."

"Well pardon me, Roget. Care to correct me with _your_ choice of an adjective better suited for our dearest head nurse?"

Charles remained quiet for a moment, enjoying the ease of the banter, but collected his thoughts to say, "Margaret is...ethereal."

Hawkeye twirled a pen between his fingers, then tapped it against the side of the clipboard in his lap.

"Ethereal. Well, fine Charles, I was just gonna go home, mend the fence, and do some redecorating after this shift. Now I've got to study. Probably be an all-nighter, too, killjoy."

Margaret shifted a bit in her sleep and Hawkeye stood to adjust the blanket which had slipped slightly below her shoulders.

"Her vital signs are reassuring," Charles remarked, resting his chin on his crossed hands.

"So far. It's infection I'm worried about now. You had to use that sweater to help with the bleeding, and you were outside, in the dirt, with it. It's--"

"We should refrain from dwelling on uncertainties for now, Pierce."

But uncertainties were all he could, himself, focus on. Still, he preferred not to give voice to them. It somehow...empowered them, making them ever more closer to reality.

"I'm just satisfied with seeing her breathing. And not...bleeding."

"Satisfied? Charles, _I'm_ worried sick, but you're beside yourself."

Charles sighed loudly, tightening his hands together.

"Pierce, do I appear to be irrationally fretful?"

"Well, no, but it's insidious. The entire time you've been at her bedside, when you're not holding her hand, you've had to keep _your_ hands together because they're shaking."

Charles looked annoyed for a moment, but then moved his chin away from the two-handed fist it had been propped upon, spread his fingers apart, and noticed the way they shook. It was very faint, now, but it still there. He'd been aware of it, he just thought it would go unnoticed.

"How did you--"

"I don't just annoy _you_, Charles, I annoy Dr. Freedman, too. Maybe I missed my calling."

Charles smirked, reminded of the conversation only a night ago with Margaret, when they'd made jokes about Dr. Freedman and psychology.

"Did you see how happy she was when she saw you, holding her hand? You think I don't know there's more going on here than concern for a friend?"

Charles closed his eyes, nodding. He stood up from the empty bed, moving instead to the chair at Margaret's side. He took her hand once again, this time, surrounding it with both of his. The shaking tapered off, and he resumed his earlier pattern of stroking fingers gently over hers.

"Hawkeye, there was so much blood. I've never had to wash so fiercely, for so long, certain it was to be an...infinite reminder of...fragility," he whispered.

Hawkeye stood, patting Charles's shoulder.

"Charles, she's the least fragile person we know. You think the Grim Reaper would wanna stick around long enough to see her temper? He gave it a quick try and turned tail. Besides," he added, voice growing softer and serious, "I beat him in a game of poker a few months back and we made a deal. He doesn't touch the people we love until we're all old and ugly. Ugli_er_, in some cases."

* * *

The dream again. Only this time, Charles hadn't fallen off the edge of earth right away. He was clinging to the precipice with both hands, shivering from the chill of a fierce wind, and yelling to her for help. She searched desperately for a rope or stick. Anything, _anything_. But it seemed to be in vain.

And now a man, a priest this time, came to stand in front of her, blocking her view of Charles. She pushed against him, telling him she needed to get to him, but he just took her wrists gently, telling her he couldn't be saved now, but soon. Then he pulled a cigar out of his pocket, lighting it, puffing languorously on the end to draw out the flame. He produced another one, asking if she'd like to smoke as well, but she refused. She had to get to Charles.

But it was too late. He'd fallen. She, in turn, _fell_ to her knees on the cold ground, a sudden rain falling upon her. And so everything, now, was falling. Yet the flame from the priest's cigar remained lit and she thought maybe it was the only thing left to do. At least she would have a bit of light. She asked for the cigar and he complied, smiling.

_"You're not strong enough yet. You can help him, soon. The rain belongs to you."_

Charles, meanwhile, observed her with interest as she began to moan, presumably beginning to come out from under the fog of medication. He was afraid another bothersome dream might be disturbing her, but he was helpless at the moment. All he could do was hold her hand, and he did, kissing the palm of it.

"I have to..." she whispered.

He leaned forward, keeping her hand close to his mouth as he whispered reassurances across the joints of her fingers.

"Have..."

Her eyes slowly opened, blinking to adjust to the light. She immediately focused on him, but there was a lingering disorientation.

"To save him..."

His lips brushed her fingers again.

"Shh, sweetheart, it's all right. Who do you have to save?"

"Him," she persisted, trying to sit up.

Charles immediately dropped her hand, gently putting pressure on both her shoulders to prevent her from sitting up and aggravating her still very vulnerable injury.

"You," she finally said, smiling at him.

He sat down, eased by her sudden coherence, pulling the chair closer to her so they could talk.

"_Me_? The dream again?"

"Different this time. Just us. You fell," her voice was gaining strength with each word, losing its drowsiness, and quickly catching up to her mind.

"And you weren't chastised by Winston Churchill this time?"

She shook her head. "A priest. With a cigar. He grabbed my wrists."

"And I gallantly defended your honor?"

"No, you were...holding onto some rocks. He wouldn't let me get to you. You fell."

"Margaret, I would advise you to cease worrying about the possibility of my demise in such a manner. Or your inability to prevent such an illogicality."

She turned her head to the side, blinking slowly.

"Then it started to rain," she murmured.

The pain was coming back, with pronounced strength. She knew by now a rib or two had broken, could feel it. The best thing was as little movement as possible. It would be hard to sleep that way, though. She'd just woken up, and wanted to speak with Charles longer, but it was hard to concentrate, and she was tired anyway. The journey into sleep-filled bliss would be aided by medicine. Charles sensed her discomfort, laying a hand on her arm.

"Margaret, are you in a great deal of pain?"

She merely nodded.

"You must tell us these things. Now is not the time for reticence. You need your rest, and the pain will only hinder it."

Hawkeye came over with a syringe at Charles's indication, sticking her gently, and running a hand along the side of her head.

"Charles," she started, absently, as soon as Hawkeye had left.

"Yes?"

"Is my book nearby?"

He looked around, spotting it on one of the empty beds. So he picked it up, flipping to the page Hawkeye had earmarked, and resumed his seat beside her. Margaret turned her head over to look at him, placing a hand on his wrist to halt movement.

"Can you...start at the beginning again?"

"Certainly."

He crossed one leg over the other, flipping back to the beginning, and clearing his throat for an added amusing effect.

"Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. Somber, as a word, was better. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer."

* * *

He stroked a hand down her cheek, smiling as her deep breathing indicated she'd relaxed into much-needed sleep. With nothing else to do, he idly flipped through the pages of the book. He'd never read it, and never intended to, but sometimes impossibilities had a way of coming to fruition, disturbing certainties, and the people who lived by them.

"You know, I _am_ a doctor, Charles, I don't know if you'd noticed. It's hard to tell, sometimes, I guess, because the white jacket makes me look like a professional, but then my cheeky, _adorable_ grin gives away my insanity. But really, everything's fine right now. We've got two other patients. If anything happens, she's going to have my immediate attention."

Charles stopped his motion, setting the book on his thigh.

"No doubt, _maestro_, but I would prefer to ensure her well-being firsthand. This is a critical timeframe and it will slightly ease my worry to be near her myself."

"Charles--"

"Need I remind you, Pierce, that she is my patient?" He immediately regretted it, but it had come forth of its own volition, the product of a frenzied mind giving sole importance to the sleeping woman before him, not the inane and childish argument between the two surgeons.

"_Your_ patient? Charles, we all love her, we all operated on her. We were--_are_ all worried out of our minds. You haven't got--"

"Pierce, I should--"

Colonel Potter, having come in and heard the tail end of their discussion escalating, sidled between them. When he spoke, his voice was low, but deliberate.

"Can it, you two. We don't need you neanderthals disturbing Margaret's rest. I'd think out of anyone, you'd both agree that's a priority."

They nodded, with Charles adding, "Of course, Colonel. I was just about to apologize to Pierce. I'm...not quite myself right now."

Potter looked sympathetic. "Understood, Winchester."

"Charles, I'm sorry, too. I just know you couldn't have slept well last night, then this morning...with everything. It's been a long day. It will be a long _few_ days. We should all get rest at every opportunity."

"Thank you, Pierce, for your concern, though I assure you that I am still capable of recognizing my own limits. I would like to reciprocate and apologize to you as well."

"All right, if you two yahoos are ready to focus and get your mind back where it belongs right now, I'd like to know how our girl here is doing."

Charles crossed his arms over his chest as Hawkeye picked up Margaret's chart, double-checking the vital signs.

"So far, so good, Colonel. She woke up a little while ago, she was in a lot of pain and the previous dose had long since worn off, so I gave her another. Charles had to weasel it out of her, though, that she even needed the medicine."

Colonel Potter nodded, hands together in a fist behind his back.

"That girl's got a will stronger than the outer wall of Alcatraz."

"Not to worry, Colonel, she shall find any plans to hide important details like that again, quickly foiled."

"Charles is right, Colonel. He's got her under intense scrutiny, nothing will get past him. In the meantime, he's been reading her some love poetry, romantic sonnets and the like," Hawkeye teased.

Charles shot him a glare.

"Look, I'm headed to bed fellas, and if anything should develop, come and get me. In the meantime, behave and uh, get some rest, Winchester, all right?" Colonel Potter turned to leave, Hawkeye trailing behind him.

The two watched as Charles stood, bending down to kiss Margaret's forehead.

"That boy's carrying a torch for her."

"Oh, tish-tosh, Colonel, he's merely showing concern for his patient. Granted, he adds a whole new meaning to the word _attentive_. And as I've also learned tonight, he could _give_ you another word for _attentive_."

Charles decided to heed the advice of his colleagues, settling on a compromise as he laid his head on the empty cot beside Margaret, turning on his side to face her, and shutting his eyes for what he knew would be a restless night's sleep.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**notes: **I'm very honored that some of you have been typically H/M 'shippers, but found my story enjoyable nonetheless. Thank you so much for the feedback! I wanted to make mention that, given normal circumstances, they probably would've started her on antiobiotics as a preventive cautionary measure to stave off any developing infection, especially given the conditions surrounding her when she was shot. But, stretch your imagination a bit, for the sake of a little added angst. So, I added that they were short on penicillin and would only use it if absolutely necessary, i.e. when she's actually starting to show signs of an infection. Also, I fleshed out the details of the actual shooting a bit more, in case I was a bit too oblique in previous chapters.

* * *

The coffee, like everything else in the mess tent, was objectionable. But caffeinated, and--if he waxed philosophical--essentially, liquid melancholia. Which was quite analogous to his present state of mind. He'd managed to rest for about four hours and once again, he was reminded of how drastically things had been altered, by one single event. It's not as though his bed in the Swamp was all that comfortable, but he would've never imagined an occurrence in which he would voluntarily succumb to sleep on the even more drastically inferior beds of post-op. When the axis of normalcy was disturbed, he was learning, everything else shifted in spite of it. Or because of it. Or even, in some instances, willingly changed.

At that moment, he was joined by Father Mulcahy and Hawkeye, whose white coat was still on, beneath his warmer green coat.

"Good Morning, Major Winchester," Mulcahy said, immediately trying to inject an optimism which was already severely lacking.

Charles nodded politely, sipping his coffee slowly.

"And how is Major Houlihan?" Mulcahy asked of Hawkeye.

"Stable," he replied, repeating what he'd said to Charles only a few hours ago. He stabbed his food violently with the fork. "You know, I don't like eating this food on a good day. I'm even less inclined to eat it today. No appetite."

"_Worry_, Pierce, has a way of dulling other needs," Charles remarked, wrapping his hands fully around the coffee mug, his own stomach indifferent to the thought of food.

"BJ's doing rounds. It figures this would happen while we've got a shortage of penicillin. I'd feel more relaxed if we could just start her on a regimen as a precautionary measure, but we can't risk using it up if it's not necessary."

Charles looked even more troubled by that hinderance.

"Has she stirred since I left?"

"No, she's resting very well. Nice to see."

"It's heartbreaking to think how close it was. Margaret's such a gentle soul," Mulcahy offered, feeling the sentiment was a bit hollow.

Hawkeye rested his left cheek in his hand, watching as Charles bowed his head and appeared to be in deep thought.

"Charles, I know it's still sensitive, but what exactly happened? Colonel Potter was a little vague with Margaret yesterday, explaining it."

He wanted to refuse a rehash of the events, but he couldn't think of a good reason--other than preserving his emotinal sanity--_not_ to tell them. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that the event itself would naturally elicit curiosity.

"We were...walking," he started, sighing. "As a matter of fact, she was fussing over me initially, as I'd slightly injured my ankle the previous night. Very minor. I was only reminded of it, in fact, when she inquired about it as we walked. Quite insistent, really. It was amusing. We must have traveled an hour or so when, quite fortunately, Klinger arrived, saying Colonel Potter had been worried about our absence and sent him off to find us at first light. It seemed so strangely fortuitous."

"The calm before the storm."

"Quite. Such a precise delineation between normalcy and chaos. I threw our bags into the seat and Margaret was...I can't remember where she was standing, but she was looking behind us for just a moment. Then...a shot."

He didn't want to elaborate. But in his head, he felt the moment, vividly, all over again. How the shot had sounded, how, looking back, he could almost _feel_ the way it interrupted the air, intent on inducing as much pain--physically and emotionally--as possible. She had stumbled a bit against him and he'd grabbed her around the shoulders, pulling her to the ground, unaware that the damage had been wrought already. Fearful that more shots would follow, he climbed into the jeep quickly, pulling her with him, and Klinger immediately sped off. He'd never even seen where the shot had come from. In retrospect, it wasn't important. What did matter, however, was how he'd slumped against the seat, certain they'd narrowly escaped severe injury, and looked over to her, expecting to see a look of equally exuberant relief.

Yet he hadn't. Instead, when he looked at her, he saw a blossoming crimson stain, spread across the sweater he'd given her. She'd pressed her left hand to the wound, shifting so she could assess it. She was cringing, but quickly pulled off her sweater, shoving it against her side. Why had he sat there so long, just staring at her, frozen? He knew, now. It wasn't _real_ until he'd at last shifted onto his knees, covered her hands with his, and felt the blood, _her_ blood, between his fingers.

"Thank God it only _nicked_ the spleen. If it had ruptured..."

"Thank God, indeed," Mulcahy finished.

"Charles, you know you did everything you could," Hawkeye added, hoping

"I realize that, though hindsight is 20/20."

"Look, why don't you go back to the Swamp and blast Rachmann?"

Charles cringed, looking at Hawkeye through squinted eyes.

"_Rachmaninoff_?"

"Him, too. You've got total amnesty; listen to it as long as you want, as loud as you want it."

Charles looked minutely touched. "Thank you, Pierce."

Hawkeye pulled his knit cap further down on his head, standing up with his tray in his right hand.

"Sure. Maybe I'll even sing along," he winked.

Charles crossed his arms, cringing again. "I am ever wearied by the uncouthness pervading this camp," he mumbled.

* * *

But he didn't play Rachmaninoff. Today--the early skies leaden with grey chill--he found refuge, and commiseration, in the mournful, weary notes of Mahler's Fifth Symphony. The fourth movement, specifically, with its adagietto pace likening its voice to an elegy, or a remembrance.

And memories, after all (if you went back far enough), were tinged with the melancholy of life's refrains, in the minor key.

A few hours had passed and BJ walked in, shutting the door quickly as a gust of cold air followed behind him. He looked to Charles, who was on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, still listening to Mahler quietly. Hawkeye lay on his back, seemingly asleep.

"I just gave her a dose of pain medicine, so she'll be out for a while," BJ said, by way of a greeting.

"How's she doing, Beej?" Hawkeye mumbled over the edge of his pillow, eyes still shut.

"Good," he replied, sitting near the still, propping his feet up. "Talking, pleasant. Groggy, but coherent. She asked about you Charles."

BJ smirked over the rim of his glass, closing his eyes as he leant his head back, letting the gin take effect. Charles, meanwhile, had sat up, pulling his shoes on, but BJ's remark halted him.

"Me?"

"She was still groggy, but yeah. Thought you were hurt or something. I assured her you were the same--dented head, but still healthy. And as pleasant as ever."

Charles smirked sarcastically, unamused.

It was then that an announcement of, "Incoming wounded!" interrupted further good-natured ribbing. Quickly tying his shoes, Charles pulled on his jacket, turned off his phonograph, and headed for duty, mind now blessedly distracted from its predominant worry.

* * *

"Not too bad. Worst one was that kid with the leg wound. Miracle they were able to clamp the femoral artery in time and get him here so fast. That boy's gonna keep his leg. Good work, Winchester," Colonel Potter said as he pulled his surgical cap off.

"Yeah, Charles, that was impressive. You can commence gloating now," Hawkeye shot at him as he took a seat by Charles on the bench.

Charles smiled softly, resting his hands on his thighs.

"Thank you, gentleman, but I can take this victory--as deserving of praise as it is--silently today."

Hawkeye shared an intrigued look with BJ, who simply shrugged.

"And now if you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up. I'm due for post-op duty in an hour."

* * *

It was a fairly intimate scene to awaken to, but she enjoyed it nonetheless. Charles had pulled the top of her long-sleeved standard issue post-op garb up to just beneath her breast, examining her wound with scrutiny. He pressed on the area gently and this fully roused her, as the pressure caused an added level of pain. When she called out softly, he stopped what he was doing and covered her back up, smiling gently.

"Nice to see you awake, Major."

Still feeling a dull hangover effect from the medicine, she simply smiled at him, by way of initial acknowledgment.

"Did that hurt more than usual, when I pressed on it?"

She nodded. He drew the blankets around her shoulders, shifting his position on the bed so they were touching, faintly. It was nice, she admitted silently, to feel him near her. The last few times she'd woken up, he'd only been as close as the chair next to the bed.

"Infection?" she finally spoke.

"No drainage or flushing, or even swelling yet. We would've started you on pencillin as a preemptive precaution, from the outset, but the next shipment was delayed and we're short, so--"

"Only use it when necessary. I understand, Charles."

"It certainly doesn't help that one of the soldiers earlier today needed an immediate regimen for an already infected wound. Our _last_ regimen."

"When's the next shipment due in?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'll be fine until then," she shivered, feeling a bit of a chill. It seemed to have gotten even colder in Korea, while she'd been essentially _detained_ in post-op.

She smiled again, closing her eyes briefly as Charles's left hand came up to stroke her hair from her brow, repeating the gesture a few times before trailing the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

"Margaret, that Schnabel record you purchased for me was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever had the pleasure, the _honor_, of being endowed with. I was moved to silence. I thank you with deepest sincerity," his voice lowered as he said the last part.

"Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, rendered speechless. By my gesture. Well, I must be something special."

"Unequivocally," his voice was brimming with intensity.

Another chill ran through her, and Charles noticed it now. She moved her arms up to her chest, intending to grab the top of the blanket and pull it tightly to her neck, but the movement was painful. Up until then, she'd only moved her arms or hands minutely; this broad shift--from having her arms at her side to suddenly bringing them completely upwards--wasn't quite what she was ready for, yet. At her wince, Charles gently grasped both her wrists, staying her arms at her side, and once again adjusted the blanket for her.

"I'll bring you another blanket. I also need to change your dressing and tape your ribs."

"Charles, one of the nurses can do that," she spoke, confused.

"Of course they can, Major, but I'd prefer to do it. I'm quite taken with the patient and, I'm ashamed to admit, it's a rather obvious way to be as near to her as possible."

As he walked away to get what he needed, Margaret carefully moved her hands, folding them across her stomach. That particular movement didn't hurt much at all. It was simply that the added injury of a few broken ribs made it imperative that certain types of movement be cautious and restrained for a few days. Settled, her thoughts returned to Charles. Certainly, they had been flirting the other night when the jeep broke down. And at all points in between, since Charles had been here; her steady praises of him, her admission that a picnic sounded sexy when he spoke of it in Italian; the way they so often sat next to each other in the Mess tent, trading little touches on each other's arms or hands. But perhaps like many things, love, too, needed an impetus to bring it to a satisfying culmination.

Sleeping as much as she had been, she thought she should cough as much as she could manage right now, to prevent any possible pneumonia from setting in. Despite the discomfort it would induce, it was the wise thing to do, with her injured ribs. Charles came back, blanket folded over his arm.

"I was just going to suggest you work on moving any fluid that might possibly be collecting in your lungs, around. Your actions preempted my advice."

She moved her arms so he could once again lift her long-sleeved shirt enough to clean the wound and dress it. It wasn't as uncomfortable to move now as it had been, though the pain was still very palpable from the wound itself.

"Charles, you know, that's women's work," she teased.

"True, Margaret, but the nurse most adept at this particular _type_ of women's work is currently in need of care."

He gently cleaned the wound, pressing at the skin around it, checking for any signs of infection. As he taped her side tightly enough to keep the ribs from moving too much (but without hindering breathing), she tugged on his hand, pulling it gently to her uninjured stomach.

"And do you intend to _keep_ caring me for, Major?" she asked softly, equally hopeful and apprehensive about the answer.

"Earnestly," his voice husky as he stroked her hair again.

"You might want to rethink that, Charles, I seem to have bad luck in love. It follows me around. It destroys even the good things, the things that can't go wrong."

"Margaret, _luck_ does not trouble itself with affairs of the heart. And if it did, you would be unburdened from any perceived bad luck, as I would happily share my fortune with you," he said with confidence, tucking the second blanket around her shoulders.

It was an admission which had been steadily building and which, finally come to fruition, was perfectly suited as a pleasant and overwhelming counteraction; its propitious, assuring warmth a welcome contrast to the continued chill pervading their surroundings. And love, like warmth, could always be found.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**notes:** Thanks again so very much for the feedback. Also, typically, a wound infection does not develop until after the first 48 hours, but it worked better my way. I seem to have an affection for using poetry in my works, and I think I've got Charles _and _Margaret to blame for that. But, oh well. The verses at the end come from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem entitled "Renascence"

Enjoy!

* * *

"Charles, I heard you were quite impressive in O.R. today," she started, taking an abrupt divergence from the seriousness of their previous exchange.

"And I'm merely subpar on all other occasions?"

She slapped his hand. "You know what I mean."

"Major," he smiled, a teasing lilt lacing his voice, "I had assumed you were far above idle gossip."

"_Major_," she countered back, "I overhead Kellye and a few of the other nurses. Can I help it if I have good hearing, and others around here just happen to pass the time by discussing the goings-on in surgery?"

"I certainly can't bemoan you that."

"Besides, on the occasions I've been awake for any length of time, it gets pretty boring around here."

"Shall I read to you some more?"

"You spend anymore time with me, Dr. Winchester, and the other patients might start to suspect you have a favorite," she bantered.

"Ah, but I do. Besides, they're all resting. Like you should be."

"Charles, I'm lying on the bed, I've _been_ lying on the bed. I don't need to sleep right now. I'm stiff."

As she said it, she attempted to shift back and upwards, so she would be more upright. Immediately, the pretense of light humour vacated, replaced with admonishment as Charles moved closer to her, putting his hands on her shoulders and halting her movement.

"Margaret, let me help you, please. I don't want you to exacerbate the wound. You're still very vulnerable, you were only...hurt yesterday," he said the last part so low she had to strain to hear him.

His right arm went behind her shoulders and his left hand went around her hip, helping her to adjust slightly so she was a bit more elevated. He pulled the blankets up further, again, to accomodate the new position. All the while, he was avoiding her gaze. Something she, naturally, noticed straight away. Personally, she still couldn't recall every detail of the shooting, but bits and pieces were coming back, like branches poking out through a fog. She remembered what the shot sounded like, and how Charles had pulled her to the ground. The next thing she remembered was the feel of something oozing from her side. She'd been so cold then, so very cold, and had thought the _blood_ would be cold, too, when she touched it, despite the near-constant feel of its warmth. She'd been wrong, as she knew should would be. The line between death and life blurred when you suddenly had the chance to _feel_ it, though, and so in that interlude, certainties were given a second thought, that they might be, somehow, false. The blood was warm. And it frightened, _bothered_ her that she could still _feel_ that fear, and somehow, knowing that Charles might still feel it as well, made it bearable. So she had to know, had to ask him.

"Charles, were you...were you scared?"

It was so personal that she bowed her head when the question left her lips, unwilling to meet the look which might've passed over Charles's face at the question. If he _had_ been, and still might be, it was possibly inappropriate and even inconsiderate to dredge up the feelings. He bowed his head, too, holding her hands tightly in both of his, with more pressure than he'd ever used before.

"Margaret, I have never felt, with such ardor, the fear which so completely consumed me at the moment I became aware of how _unfairly_ mortal you were. I have always...found comfort in logic but, I suddenly found myself betrayed by it. And that fear which so enveloped me then, remains frustratingly palpable now."

Conceiving of no way to counter that, she simply stated, "I'm just glad it wasn't _you_ in my place."

He brushed a soft kiss against her brow.

"If you only knew how frequently I've wished it _was_."

He was looking at her with great depth in his eyes, but she was pleased to see that a bit of worry seemed to have fled; most likely due to their conversation, both the intensity _and_ duration of it. Indeed, up to this point, she'd not been able to carry on any lengthy, or serious discussion. He stood now, going to the foot of her bed and picking up her chart, making a few notes.

"Just about due for another I.V."

"Charles. Later tonight, will you...read to me some more?"

"Certainly," he replied, tucking his pen into the pocket of his coat. "What shall I regale you with?"

"Surprise me."

* * *

He _had_ surprised her, with Robert Browning (he didn't like either of the Brownings, but he could tolerate Robert), and she'd fallen asleep pleasantly, eased by the melodious hum of his voice close to her ear, teasing errant strands of hair. The next morning, she awoke a little later than usual, greeted by Colonel Potter, who was bundled in his winter coat and presently pulling his hood down from around his head.

"Well, looks like Miss Sunshine decided to greet the day at last."

The ribs would continue to hinder her movement for weeks to come, she knew, but she was determined to move as much as possible. Using her elbow to elevate herself, she pushed back only slightly against her pillows.

"When do I get out of here?" she mumbled, though feeling a little off as she came into wakefulness.

"You'll get out of here when we say you're good and ready, and not a moment too soon," he used his best stern voice.

At that moment, Hawkeye walked up to the foot of her bed, leaning his elbow on the rail. He mumbled something to the passing nurse, who nodded at him. Folding his hand around his chin, he smiled down at her, hanging her chart back up.

"So, what's the story, Pierce?" Potter implored.

"Just getting the results of the blood I drew, and I'll know more then. In the meantime, I'm gonna have a look at the wound and dressing and if all looks well, Margaret and I could be dancing the Charleston by twenty hun--eight o'clock."

"Just give me an update when you get everything looked over," Colonel Potter ordered, patting Margaret's hand and leaving.

Charles came in right behind him, carrying a tray of food. He seated himself on her right side, pulling the chair as close as he could.

"I regret I am unable to bring you anything of substance from my reliquary, but I did manage to find the most mildly burnt toast this morning."

She smiled at his gesture.

"So when are you two moving in together?" Hawkeye teased from his vantage point at her feet.

"I should think I'd need to find a suitable home for you and Hunnicutt first, Pierce," Charles countered back.

Margaret, meanwhile, was attempting to sit up even further, the extent of her current discomfort multiplied by the effort, as her still vulnerable wound cried out with fury. She immediately halted her movement, placing a hand over the injury, but then retracting it as the touch hurt even further. It hurt nearly as much as it had when she'd first come out of surgery.

Hawkeye quickly came to that side, taking a seat on the bed as he lifted her top to reveal the dressing. Charles had set the tray down, refusing to let worry set in just yet, although a sense of foreboding had come upon him once more. As Hawkeye gently peeled back the gauze, he winced along with Margaret, who was now inundated with a dull throbbing pain emanating from where she'd been shot. The nurse had come back with the test results and, seeing what was going on, handed Hawkeye a glove. He thanked her absently, pulling the glove on so he could press against the wound, which was severely swollen and draining badly. It had even started to bleed a bit at the edges, a light ooze.

Since she'd woken up, she'd felt abnormally hot, but that feeling was now punctuated, and she began to shiver minutely with chills. Hawkeye studied the results of the blood test.

"Elevated white blood cells," he stated, to Charles, who was now very worried, having seen the wound himself.

At Hawkeye's statement, Charles turned to focus on Margaret, who looked slightly anxious herself. He brushed the back of his hand against her forehead, trailing it down to her cheek as he stroked it for a few seconds.

"You're very warm, Margaret."

"I don't feel so good, Charles," she murmured, in an indirect response.

In a relatively short amount of time, chills overtook her body with greater frequency and intensity. The cold air surrounding them only added to her discomfort. Hawkeye quickly cleaned the wound, still not pulling her top down yet, or reapplying a dressing, until Colonel Potter had a look. He stood, calling for their CO. Margaret tried to distract herself by looking at Charles again.

"I'm cold."

Though he could see for himself the physical manifestation of her chills, it was still strange to hear her say it, having felt the great heat emanating from her skin where he'd stroked her cheek.

"Shall I loan you my sweater again?"

He'd meant it as a way to lighten the mood, but it only served to remind him that the sweater he'd leant her was the very one which had been stained with her blood; the one they'd used as a crude, makeshift absorption device. Luckily, she didn't seem to take notice of the reference, or his troubled demeanor _because_ of the reference.

"Just a moment; let Colonel Potter have a look and we'll tuck you in thoroughly."

One of the nurses came by with a thermometer, handing it to Colonel Potter who'd just come to stand by Margaret's side, and popped it into her complacent mouth.

"Well, let's have a look," he said as he observed the area. There was noticeable swelling, coupled with a significant amount of drainge, bright red streaks, and the oozing Hawkeye and Charles had noted. Satisfied with the inspection, Potter nodded to the nurse who'd gotten a new dressing ready, applying it quickly to the wound and vacating to allow the surgeons their time to consult with one another.

Charles had taken her right hand, wrapping his own around her wrist, and holding tightly. The purpose was twofold: he could maintain comforting contact with her and take her pulse.

"This fever came on mighty fast, boys. It worries me," Potter mused.

"Her pulse is normal," Charles supplied.

Hawkeye had taken his position on the bed again, taking her blood pressure.

"Well, her pressure's a little low, but I think we can rule out--"

"Septicemia," Potter finished, hands in a fist behind his back.

Hawkeye rubbed a hand quickly down her cheek.

"She's not in shock, or cyanotic. No petechiae. Blood tests would've shown it, too. We got that fresh batch of penicillin, so we start her on that, she should be good as new. Again."

Margaret made a loud groan, indicating the thermometer still in her mouth, and equally expressing her annoyance at their present treatment of her.

"I'm not _dead_," she started, icy edge to her voice as Charles pulled out the thermometer. They realized she was right, but the phrasing made them all wince internally.

"102.8," Charles sighed, shaking the glass tube.

"That fever's going to get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid."

Hawkeye slapped his hands on his thighs, standing abruptly.

"Well, Margaret, I'll get you your first dose of pencillin. When things calm down a little, I'll come back and read you _A Tale of Two Cities_. Or, if you'd rather sleep, Charles can just read you some more poetry."

"Pierce, if the writings of Charles Dickens had been cohabitating with the filth you keep in that locker, then our tent would have long since been visited by the Ghost of _Civility_ begging you to reconsider your deplorable living situation."

"Charles, I take offense to that. My _filth_ would warrant more than just a visitation. A haunting, maybe--"

"Can it. Pierce, give the first dose of pencillin by injection. The rest of the doses go in an I.V. solution."

Colonel Potter took a seat by Margaret's hip, patting her arm.

"These things can happen fast sometimes, I'm just damn grateful it's not septicemia. Now be a good patient and listen to your doctors. I know how stubborn you are, and if you had it your way, you'd be pushing yourself in a wheelchair tomorrow. A little "easy does it" never hurt anyone, so just sit this one out for a few days."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the Colonel continued, "Now, this infection's gotta be hurting and those two broken ribs aren't easy to ignore either. Why don't you let us give you a sedative and you can sleep off a good part of this fever?"

She didn't want to look at Charles just yet, knowing he would've been imploring her to heed Colonel Potter's advice, with his enthralling blue eyes, which she was unable to refuse. Despite keeping her gaze from his, she was also inherently pragmatic and more in pain than she'd been for quite some time. So she nodded her acquiescence, touched as Colonel Potter kissed her cheek before leaving.

* * *

Charles had given her the strong sedative only two hours ago and while she'd waited for the medicine to take hold, she'd been slightly diffident, something which confounded Charles a bit, but which he wrote off to the pain and fatigue naturally owing to her condition.

Now, she was sleeping and dreaming, neither of which was particularly pleasant, but rather, disturbed by the high fever still raging through her body and the medicine, which disoriented that which was already unstable. She was dreaming, once more, of her first best friend, Lucy Sullivan.

_The last week of summer, before first grade, Margaret's father came home, silent and towering, stating they would be moving and Margaret would be attending a new school. With new friends. So a week later, she sat with Lucy on the grass, their long dresses flapping in the wind, their pigtails loose and unburdened, like the youth in their souls. She told Lucy that she was afraid to leave, afraid of being alone. Lucy tucked something into Margaret's hand before they said goodbye. And when they hugged, for the last time, Lucy whispered, "I'll light candles for you, so you'll never be alone."_

_They kept in touch with infrequent letters until one day, Margaret received another letter, absent Lucy's handwriting. Lucy had died of influenza. And that day, the only time in her life, she ran out of the house without telling anyone where she was going. Her six-year-old legs propelled her ever forward until she found the Catholic Church in their city. It was empty, but she went forward, feeling as though she was betraying so many people by doing this, but thinking only of her dead friend who could no longer create fires for people she loved. So that day, and only that day, Margaret lit a candle, for someone, for her friend. She was alone, then, and for a long time after._

The sedative still had a strong grip on her consciousness, but she roused slightly, meeting Father Mulcahy's watchful eye.

"A sunflower," she murmured, slurring.

"Pardon, Major?" Father Mulcahy bent forward, gentle eyes on the edge of worry.

"Sunflower."

"Uh, Major Winchester, perhaps you'd better come here," Mulcahy voiced to Charles, who was nearby.

Charles knelt at Margaret's side, pressing his flat hand against her forehead and pursing his lips when he realized she felt even warmer. Margaret was incoherent, unaware of what she was saying or whom she was saying it to.

"Margaret?" he questioned softly.

"She gave me...sunflower. Before she died."

Her eyes slid closed again and Charles was left to ruminate about her fever-induced stirrings.

* * *

Four more hours passed and this time, it was easier to come to wakefulness, and lucidity, the potency of the sedative wearing off.

"Margaret?"

She felt a hand stroking her cheek gently.

"Margaret?" the voice was more forceful this time.

Her eyes opened slowly, turning towards the sound of the voice. She smiled when she saw Charles there. He replaced his hand on her cheek with a cool cloth, and the sight of his "nursing" amused her.

"Florence Nightingale?" she teased, her voice airy.

"Rip Van Winkle?" he teased back.

"_Drug_-induced slumber. It doesn't count."

"Semantics, Major. Though I admire your cleverness."

"How's your ankle?" her thoughts were still a little muddled.

"My ankle?" he furrowed his brow. She continued to run a high fever and slight delirium was not uncommon with that, nor uncommon with a severely infected wound. So he thought he might as well revisit an injury long since past.

"Quite fine, Margaret. Has been since the morning of...the shooting. You know, you must stop worrying me so. I will only blame you when I am completely bald at the conclusion of this senseless fighting."

"Charles--"

He waved a hand in front of her, halting speech, and set down the cloth he'd been cooling her skin with.

"I wanted to briefly expand on a point I had been making earlier, before we are interrupted again."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of her bed so when he whispered, his breath tickled her cheek.

"Death is an absolute, yet when you were hurt, I was suddenly more certain of it than I'd ever wanted to be. Logic, of course, ensured that absolute. It also ensured my realization of the degree to which..."

He paused a moment, bringing her hand to his lips, finishing with, "I adore you."

Just then, Hawkeye came up to them, interrupting with, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of...idiots. Anyway, Charles, here's that book you wanted. Look, why don't I just bring your library and phonograph in here, sustain you with IV fluids, and hose you off once in a while so you never have to leave."

Charles forcefully grabbed the book from Hawkeye's hand, punctuating his gratitude with annoyance, "_Thank_ you, Pierce. Your presence is, as always, most appreciated when it is _not_ present at all."

"Charles, I wouldn't want this interplay with anyone but you," Hawkeye smirked. "Margaret, you are looking as lovely as always. As soon as Scrooge here leaves or collapses with exhaustion, I'll come back with some scotch and you can beat me at poker."

Charles flipped through the book, ignoring Hawkeye who departed with a kiss to Margaret's cheek and a muttered, "Whoever heard of a woman with the middle name of a man, anyway?"

Charles wanted to inquire about the dream Margaret had been disturbed by, earlier, interested in the girl who'd given Margaret a sunflower, and then died. But it would wait. Besides, he preferred to absorb himself in poetic verse, and to bring Margaret within the beauty of those words as well.

"Ah," he said, finally arriving at the poem he wanted to share with her.

"Charles, I'm still groggy, I don't know how long I can keep my eyes open."

"Then sleep, dearest. This is yet another occasion in which you need only to hear. Or, to feel."

She heard him start with, "_All I could see from where I stood was three long mountains and a wood,"_ but then closed her eyes, content to _feel_ the poem, as Charles had said, and allow it to take her into blissful slumber once more.

She dozed lightly, consciousness popping in and out, allowing her to hear scant phrases.

"_The creaking of the tented sky, the ticking of Eternity. I saw and heard, and knew at last, the How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore..."_

His voice, and the grace of the words themselves, eventually merged into that same melodious hum she'd come to hope for, and adore. Before fully succumbing to sleep, she could've sworn she heard a whispered "I love you" within the kiss upon her cheek.

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

**notes: **To the few of you reading this, I thank you deeply for the feedback. You obviously have great taste in pairings. :wink: This is the end of the road, for this story, anyway. And I thought it should definitely have a happy ending, since my next story probably won't. Anyway, thanks again for the feedback and enjoy!

* * *

A few days had passed and everyone was pleased to see Margaret's infection clear up with little fuss. And while Charles had been giving occasional thought to the identity of the girl who'd given Margaret a sunflower and died, Margaret had been giving equal thought to the melancholy _she_ detected in Charles. It had built gradually as she got better, to the point that he was now more subdued than she could remember him being in quite some time. 

In fact, the last time she remembered him being this subdued was when...he'd been troubled by death after he, along with BJ, brought a patient back from the brink of it. She'd referred to his behavior as "weird," in the Officer's Club, but it was quite obvious that she was concerned--more concerned than she'd cared to admit at the time--and she naturally hid strong emotions like that behind a veil of consternation and even indifference. She'd never really discovered the story behind the true cause of his disturbance, but now that he seemed to be displaying the same emotions, she thought it best that she find a way to bring it up, confront it, and possibly...heal it.

Maybe, she wondered surreally, that was the meaning to her bizarre dream involving the priest who smoked cigars and the cliff she couldn't get to, where Charles hung precariously.

As she awoke this particular morning--a mere five days since she'd been shot--she was glad to feel only a distant ache where her wound was. It was only her broken ribs, now, which continued to cause pain, though having them wrapped helped, and so did remaining recumbent. It would be uncomfortable to sit or bend over for any length of time, though she could stand and operate. Of course, that could be relieved with aspirin, but it was still an unpleasant consideration.

It was still very cold around her, so she shivered when she sat upright, pulling the blankets to her stomach.

She remembered Charles sitting on her bed last night, reading to her once more until she'd fallen asleep, but he was currently nowhere to be found. While it disappointed her slightly not to see him, she was also glad, because that more than likely meant he was getting some much needed--and much deserved--rest...in as proper a bed as they could manage in such a setting.

At that moment, BJ walked in, shivering as he shut the door quickly behind him. He spotted her immediately, smiling as he came over and took a seat by her bed. His gloved hands held a box in his lap and he smiled with anticipatory glee as he teasingly lifted a corner of the lid.

"I've got a surprise for you, Margaret."

She folded her hands over her lap, nodding her head to urge him on.

"Fudge," he stated lightly, lifting the box to reveal the chocolate delights.

Her stomach rumbled with resounding approval and she smiled in gratitude, but said, "BJ, Peg sent that for you."

"She did, but you're the sick one. If I eat all this, _I'll_ be the sick one. And we can't afford the loss of my brilliant surgical contributions an upset stomach would cause."

"Well, that's so thoughtful of you, Captain. And what would the other doctors think about you corrupting the strict diet they've implemented for me while I'm under their oppressive, though loving, care?"

"Did I mention it's fudge, Major?" his eyes glistened with amusement.

"Hand it over," she demanded, playing at a stern tone.

Hawkeye came over just as she was taking a second bite, a knowing smile on his face.

"I should've guessed that if one of us was going to sneak goodies to you, it'd be BJ. He'd probably slip candy under the door to a kid who'd just broken his mother's favorite record by using it for target practice. What a softie."

BJ stuck his tongue out at Hawkeye, standing up to leave.

"So since you're getting out today, why don't you drop by the Swamp later? I know Charles will turn off his records to speak with you."

"And now you're _using_ her? I'm appalled." Hawkeye teased.

"Well, I did bring her fudge. She owes me."

BJ departed, patting Margaret's hand gently before he left.

Hawkeye grabbed her chart and took a seat on her bed, glancing over it approvingly as he flipped the page to take note of all her vital signs.

"Well, I've got good news and bad news, Margaret. The good news is, you're perfectly fine. The bad news is, you're perfectly fine. You get to rejoin the ranks of the sleep-deprived and brain-numbed. But, you will be close to me again, something I'm sure inspired you to get well as soon as possible."

Her mouth remained closed in a thin line until she asked, "Where's Charles?"

Hawkeye bent the clipboard sideways, resting it on his thighs, and resting his hands, in turn, atop the edge of the clipboard.

"You know, Margaret, I'm beginning to think I might not be your favorite doctor around here anymore."

"You never were, Pierce."

He put a hand to his chest, feigning indignation.

"I'm hurt. I save your life and you crush my sensitive, tiny ego."

"It would take the manpower of a small armored tank division to destroy your _tiny_ ego."

"So I guess we'd need a few infantry divisions to destroy Charles'?"

Her silence indicated she was not amused, but Hawkeye set the clipboard down, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward as his eyes took on a serious gaze.

"Actually, Margaret, I guess no one told you, but Charles operated on you. I mean, we were all there, but he did most of the work. It wasn't a complicated surgery and he looked...horrified and sick, so I told him to clean up and rest. But he couldn't. He insisted on being the one to _save_ you."

"'Save me'?"

"That's exactly how he put it."

Now she knew she had to confront him. But later. For now, she was anxious to surprise him.

"So, am I free?"

"Indubitably."

"Do me a favor..."

* * *

Charles had sat with Margaret last night, as he'd done every night since she'd been hurt, insisting on talking with her or reading to her until she was lulled to sleep. He'd been neglecting his own needs, functioning on a less than normal amount of sleep. But knowing how well she was doing, the infection eradicated and the pain eased, he was able to fully indulge himself in much needed rest. As it was, he neared the brink of wakefulness, having been asleep for six hours already. 

A voice cut into his semi-consciousness, calling his name. Still half-asleep, he rebelled against it, swinging a hand futilely in the air, saying, "Leave me be."

"Fine, Charles, I'll just go to breakfast with Hawkeye."

The feminine lilt, now louder, immediately roused him and he turned his head on his pillow, coming face to face with Margaret, who was seated in a wheelchair beside his bed.

"Margaret, what--"

"I escaped. Come on, are you hungry?"

He sat up fully, pulling on his coat quickly as the chilly air hit his skin.

"Did Pierce bring you here?"

"Yeah, I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, I--I would've preferred--"

"Charles, you can't just be happy that I'm up and about?"

"I _am_ happy, Margaret. Very. I just...are you warm enough?" he suddenly stood, tugging on the sweater she was wearing, the same worry seeping back into his voice as he wondered if it was thick enough.

He opened his locker, pulling out another sweater and kneeling in front of her. His eyes were full of intense emotions and she was reminded, yet again, of how important just the focus of gaze could make her feel. It was as though nothing else mattered right now. He pulled the sweater over her head and she let him loop her arms through the sleeves, an amused expression on her face.

"Charles, I'm not paralyzed, despite the appearance of this wheelchair."

"I know, but your ribs will be sensitive for a while. No need to cause unnecessary strain when help can be afforded you."

He patted the material down, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Shall we journey to the mess tent and sustain you with food which will ensure your delayed recovery?"

"Charles, when you say it like that, it makes me think the food here is awful or something."

* * *

After they ate, Charles wheeled Margaret back to her tent. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she closed her eyes and sighed with contentment. Hawkeye had put her fudge on the bed like she'd asked. Everything else was exactly how she'd left it. Even the copy of _Stars and Stripes_ lay where she'd rested it, earmarked at the last place she'd read. 

"Home, sweet home," she mused.

Charles smiled at her joy, pushing the chair inside quickly, to avoid the brief gust of wind beckoning at his back. When he stopped pushing, Margaret put her hands on the armrests, preparing to stand. Charles quickly came around to stand in front of her.

"Margaret--" he began.

"Charles," she warned, her tone laced with an icy warning to let her be until she absolutely needed help.

He complied, backing up slightly to give her room. When she had stood and taken a few steps towards her bed, he followed closely behind her, a hand ghosting at the small of her back, should she need help. When she made it to her bed, she sat carefully, to avoid aggravating her injured ribs. Though they had taped them initially, and even earlier this morning, she now went without any added pressure, as they had started to heal slightly and it would be the best way to avoid causing a nasty chest infection. She grabbed the box of fudge, gesturing for Charles to take the seat beside her.

"Hunnicutt sneak you that contraband, Major?"

She nodded around a bite of fudge.

"Yes, this is illegal, Major Winchester, you are aiding and abetting a criminal violating her doctors' orders. That being said, want some?"

She pushed the box in front of him and he took a piece, smiling at her humour. She set the box down now, turning to face Charles and taking his hand in hers.

"I know I just settled in, but there's something that's been on my mind and I wanted to talk to you about it."

He looked slightly more concerned, glancing at their joined hands and stroking his thumb over hers.

"Charles, remember when you and BJ saved that kid whose heart had stopped, when that sniper was firing on us?"

He nodded, apprehension now joining the dance in his eyes.

"I always thought there was something...more to how troubled you were by it. I should've asked, but I didn't, because I knew, even then, how I felt about you. I was afraid...anyway, I'll never forget that look on your face, Charles. I hoped I wouldn't have to see it again, but I have. Since I've been hurt, Charles, that look has been plastered all over your face and I want to know why, what I can do to help."

He removed his hand from hers, standing up abruptly.

"Well, Major, I apologize if my demeanor has upset your equilibrium in some way. I shall amend my present mood and affix a smile upon my face to appease your inquiry. And you can _help_ by taking care of your own needs."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and exited before she could reply.

* * *

Shortly after the displeasing discussion with Margaret, Charles was occupied with an onslaught of wounded that poured into camp. Outwardly, he was his usual professional self, but internally, he was berating himself for leaving Margaret in such a way, knowing she was still not up to full capacity and wondering if she'd perhaps needed help lying down or retrieving some reading material, or any number of things. _She could hurt herself!_ he chided himself, angrily. 

As another grueling session of surgery ended, Charles quickly removed his scrubs, thinking he'd better head to Margaret's to apologize, but uncertain just yet about what to say or how to say it. He pulled on his coat slowly, his gloves even slower.

Hawkeye came up behind him, pulling on his own green jacket and quite surprisingly proposed the offer, "Why don't you let me buy you a drink, Charles?"

Thinking it a wonderful distraction on his current indecision about how best to apologize to Margaret, he gladly accepted the offer.

Over drinks, Charles confessed, "She asked something...deeply personal of me. I objected to her probing rather vehemently."

"Have you spoken to her since?"

"Immediately afterwards, we were inundated with casualties."

Hawkeye nodded, sipping from the amber bottle as he formulated a response.

"You were the first person she asked for this morning. You've _been_ the first person she's asked for, _every_ morning, since she was shot. If you can find a woman who actually wants to see you that soon after they wake up, I say stick with her."

Charles sighed, wondering why he'd thought it would be a good idea to elicit counsel from Hawkeye.

"Look, Charles, for some reason, she likes you, a lot. She always has. That's obvious to anyone. She gets mad when she gets scared. And she gets scared when she gets close. And you like her, which is even more obvious. You must let her see the man none of us ever do. So...why not, you know, let her see _that_ too? Whatever's bothering you, I mean. Let her see the bad stuff. You know, the _other_ bad stuff. She's a great nurse, Charles, really knows how to heal wounds and make people feel better."

Charles finished his Cognac, smiling at Hawkeye.

"Pierce, I hope we never have to do this again, but I will end this therapeutic session with a grateful thank you."

He left, still not knowing _how_ to relate what she'd asked of him, but certain he had to.

* * *

He had to knock several times in a row before she'd finally agreed to allow him inside. He hoped she hadn't locked it, as he didn't want her getting up to _un_lock it. Thankfully, she hadn't. He bowed his head slightly as he entered, penitent in demeanor. 

"What do _you_ want?"

He removed his hat, folding it between his hands, glad he hadn't unbuttoned his coat as it seemed he'd shortly be out in the cold again.

"Margaret, I--"

"You try to help someone and all they do is push you away and leave in a huff, like _you_ were the one who did something wrong. Oh, how _dare_ I care, Major. What was I thinking?"

"Margaret--" he stepped closer.

"Why don't you just go back to the Swamp and play your records? They won't ask anything of you."

"No, they certainly won't."

At her instantly increased expression of fury, he realized he hadn't worded that as he'd meant.

"No, Margaret, let me explain--"

"Major, I think you've done enough today. I'm sore, I just took some medicine, so I'm tired and I'm uninterested in any hollow apologies or explanations you might like to give me. So, get out!"

Charles stood firm, continuing closer to her. She sat on the bed, legs dangling over the side, and he moved until he was kneeling in front of her. He tried to pull her hands into his, but she snatched them away. Persistent, he placed his hands on her knees now, and though she initially jerked them, she eventually relented.

He could see the fatigue in her eyes, the medicine making her groggy. If he hadn't come in, she probably would've been asleep by now.

"May I stay with you until you fall asleep?" he asked, feeling like an admonished child begging forgiveness for eating all the cookies from the jar just before dinner.

She sighed.

"I'm still mad at you, Charles. You can stay, but then I want you to leave. I don't want you here when I wake up."

"Understood," he acknowledged.

Removing his hands from her knees, he stood to assist her so she could settle into the bed.

"Did you injure yourself earlier, doing this alone?"

"I twisted wrong and my ribs weren't happy. That's why I took the pain medicine."

He nodded, feeling even guiltier for leaving her that way. As her head hit the pillow, he pulled her pajama top up to reveal the healing wound. The angry red streaks and swelling of days ago were gone, replaced by natural pinkish hues assuring healing. He bent forward to kiss the area of skin surrounding where she'd been shot, lips lingering softly and sweetly. Margaret gasped slightly at the gesture, moving her hand to push him away. Instead, he seized her fingers, kissing them, too, and took a position on the bed, keeping her hand in his lap.

By now, her eyelids were drooping and she blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to stay awake.

"I'm so tired," she slurred, voice close to silence.

"I know, sweetheart," he responded quietly, stroking her hair to lull her into the sleep beckoning her submission. His gentle motion against her head, eventually ensured that submission as she closed her eyes completely. He waited a few minutes to make sure she was deeply asleep, then kissed her hand once more before opening the door with amateur stealth and exiting, as she'd asked.

He couldn't stay away the entire time, though. A few hours later, he ventured back, hesitating at the threshold. It was just past dusk and the absent sun gave way to a greater chill. He knew he couldn't stay out here long, but he didn't want to shatter the tenuous peace they'd come to earlier, by going inside her tent, against her wishes. He decided to return to his tent and come back later, after she'd slept some more. So when a few more hours had passed, he returned to her tent again. Seeing no light on, he thought perhaps he should just go back to the Swamp and get some sleep of his own.

But he had wonderings of his own and worried that her slumber might still be troubled, even more troubled, given the tempestuous fog she'd fallen asleep to. So he sat on the cold ground, unsure why, and even more surprised at the action itself. To his even greater surprise, twenty minutes later, the door to her tent opened and he turned his head around to see her standing there, hair tousled adorably with sleep and sweater lopsided at the neck as she peered down at him curiously.

"Well, you didn't want to see me when you awoke. Technically, you would not have seen me, had you remained in your tent," he stated, defensively.

She closed the door and took a seat on the ground next to him, wincing a bit as she tried to find a comfortable position. He watched her carefully, hand going to her hip as he eased the process for her. When she'd finally taken a seat, she leaned her shoulder into him, crossing her arms over her chest and pulling them inward to conserve heat.

"Charles, Hawkeye told me that you operated on me, that you'd insisted on _saving me_. I think it's all...connected."

Charles nodded.

"I had a little brother, Timmy. We were quite young, mischievous, curious. He had more of an adventurious streak than me. One day, we happened upon a large tree which Timmy insisted on climbing. It looked sturdy enough, but I rebuked his insistence on climbing it. He begged me to allow him to do so, though. I let him, and he...fell. He was quiet and still and I thought I could...save him. I _had_ to save him. I should have protected him to begin with. I should have stopped him from climbing it, or been up there with him. I should have...protected _you_. But since I couldn't, I had to save you. Like I couldn't save him," his voice descended into the shadows, like winds at funerals, and he bowed his head.

She placed an icy hand over his, squeezing as she rested her head upon his shoulder.

"Charles, did you ever think that instead of blaming yourself for not saving everyone else, you might let someone...save you?"

He was silent for a long moment before answering, "Recently, I've been wondering if I have found someone who can."

"And?"

"She looks remarkably like you."

Margaret smiled, lacing her arm through Charles'.

"Who was the girl who bestowed upon you a sunflower, prior to her death?"

The question surprised Margaret, as she remembered her old friend and wondered how Charles knew about it.

"You mentioned her when you were delirious with fever a few days ago," he explained.

Margaret nodded, sighing.

"A friend. My best friend, Lucy Sullivan. We had to move away and then she...died. I lit a candle for her and then I realized how alone I was. How alone I _would_ be."

Charles pulled his arm from beneath Margaret's, placing it, instead, around her shoulders. He pulled her in tightly as he said, "Margaret, earlier you said that I should play my records because they don't ask anything of me--"

"Charles, I was--"

He cut her off quickly.

"Refrain from dissent for a moment. You said they don't ask anything of me. Music is my refuge, my passion, my deliverance. But it will never be my touchstone, _because_ it doesn't ask anything of me. I need to be challenged and reprimanded and shifted. I need to be _better_. And you, my dear Major, provide all that and more, by asking _everything_ of me. You will never be alone, you see, as I need you for my own selfish reasons."

She smiled at his words as he kissed her cheek.

"And what are those?"

"I regret that I am, in some instances, a frayed string in need of mending."

* * *

A few days later, Charles was pleasantly biding his time alone in the Swamp by playing the Schnabel record Margaret had given him. With BJ and Hawkeye out for drinks, he was thankful the threat of interruption was but a distant worry. 

That thankfulness dissipated quickly as he heard the door swing open slowly. Setting down the book of Millay poetry, he turned to face the intruder, face instantly softening as he saw Margaret standing there, hands in her pockets as her body shook with cold.

"Margaret, you shouldn't be walking around like this."

"Charles, I've been out of that wheelchair for days now, I can walk perfectly fine."

"I know, but it's even colder today than it has been. I don't want you catching ill," he fretted, amusing her, pulling the blanket off his bunk to wrap it around her shoulders. He ushered her over to where he'd been, providing her with an extra chair.

"_Oh_, this is the record I bought you," she commented as she heard the music.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You were playing it earlier and I saw the record cover. Deduction. I wish I could've gotten Schnabel here to play for you personally."

Charles cringed, trying to mask it quickly with a smile, but failing. Margaret laughed as she watched him.

"Charles, I'm kidding. I know _Artur_ Schnabel died in 1951 and he most frequently played the works of Beethoven and Schubert," she stated with pride at her recitation of facts.

Charles looked impressed now, smiling at her knowledge.

"Do you have any Schubert records?" she asked of him.

"I do."

"You should play some for me."

She shifted closer so they were leaning against one another. Her eyes closed as she listened to the music, enjoying it immensely.

"I like this, all of it, very much," she remarked, speaking of more than just the music.

"I concur."

She turned in her chair so their eyes met, then put her hands on either side of his face, stroking her fingers down his cheeks.

"I love you," she whispered, just before she pulled his lips against hers for a kiss.

And as he breathed a reciprocal, "I love you," into her mouth, she thought of sunflowers who always follow the shining, and lovers, who keep each other warm.

_fin._


End file.
